Ruin Of Many A Girl
by Tanzy Morrow
Summary: Before the Great Brotherly Road Trip, there was Dean in the Big Easy. With plenty of ghost stories to chose from, Dean shouldn't have a problem keeping busy. Except trust him to find the most awkward.
1. Chapter 1

Rolling over to beat the life out of the alarm clock, Dean then pulled the pillow more firmly over his head. Sunlight was bad. Darkness was good. Consciously, he let each and every muscle in his body relax until he felt the cheap mattress beneath give up and contour itself to him. Then he inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower, and decided that sleeping was the cure for Bourbon Street.

Except it wasn't and a little voice in his head was now whispering full-bore and it was louder than the bass drum at his brainstem.

It sounded _exactly_ like his father.

Groaning softly, he pushed the pillow away and rolled onto his back. There was a moment and then he was sitting up, dragging hands over his face. The voice was right. He had a job to do. To finish. One of the two. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he resisted the urge to look to see where his head had rolled off to and instead ran his tongue over his teeth. Yep, something had died in there.

It took about 30 seconds to gain both the will and the coordination to make it to the bathroom but, one strong tooth-brushing later, he decided it was the smartest use of 30 seconds in his entire life. Blearily, Dean peered into the mirror above the sink. Bloodshot green-hazel eyes stared back and he grimaced in disgust. He needed a bath, a shave, and some breakfast. If he did it in that order, the general populace would probably thank him. Then, with all of that under his belt, he would feel more human again and he could sort out if he still had a job or if he had, in fact, finished it up last night prior to the run in with the Captain. Hands braced on the cool porcelain of the sink, eyes closed, he felt 99 sure he was done but there was a sort of niggling in the back of his head. In his line of work, you ignored instinct at your own risk and this sounded like a pesky little instinct.

With another yawn, Dean pushed away from the sink and padded over to jimmy with the temperamental tub faucets. It was hard to think with a hangover. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub helped, though, listening to the pouring water. Every now and then, he put his hand under it to test the temperature but his gaze was fixed ahead on the dank tiles, seeing beyond them as he tried to think past the fog. Small house, lots of wrought iron work, abandoned, and smelling of… He felt bile rise up in the back of his throat and did a neat about-face to hover over the toilet in the ready position. When nothing quite came up, he merely grimaced horribly and spat into the bowl as a precaution. Anyway, the house smelled of rotting things and sulfur and dried blood which was about par for the course.

Kneeling beside the tub now, Dean hung his arms over the edge to trail his fingers in the water, the level steadily rising as the faucet continued doing its duty. As the water covered his wrists, he suddenly smiled. He remembered it all now. The job was done. It hadn't even been anything tough – a bit of a spirit laying, tied to the body in the backyard. Some research, some questions, and it was a walk in the park. The little spook didn't even rate a mention on one of the cheesy ghost tours that crawled all over the French Quarter.

He withdrew his hands and ran them back through his hair, effectively dampening it all before reaching out to shut off the faucets. Then, with the aid of the bathtub rim, he rose to shaky legs and stripped down for the plunge. A grin curved his lips at a sudden thought. Maybe he should go on one of the tours while he was down here. It wasn't like Dad expected him back at the checkpoint until next Tuesday at the earliest. It was Wednesday. He had plenty of time to screw around a bit. Just a little. He hadn't had a vacation in ages and where better than here?

Stepping over the edge, he got himself into the tub and sank down abruptly before his legs decided to rebel again. Then he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Yeah, that sounded good. A little break, a little tour, maybe a little more Bourbon Street. He sighed and slid further under the water. Once he was human again, of course.

* * *

Which took about 2 hours to accomplish due to him drifting off in the blissfully warm water and nearly drowning. Twice. When he had finally managed to drag himself from the cooled water, Dean faced his toothbrush again and then spent a good ten minutes tinkering with the hot-plate contraption his low-rent motel provided along with the little glass coffee pot and a squished packet of the holy brown grit. Finally turning out a cup of coffee so strong the little plastic stirrer threatened to melt in it, he took his time swallowing it as he stood by the window and peered out at the street. Despite his internal clock telling him it was late, there were few people out on the street and the sunshine wasn't really as bright as his bloodshot eyes had made it out to be. That was a good start to his vacation, he decided.

He spent a few minutes watching a lean, long-legged blonde in shorts jog across the street and then head west. That was an even better start. Turning away from the window, he drained his mug and set it on the nightstand before settling himself back on the bed and snatching up the pile of brochures the motel left in every room. The very first one had him snickering at the logo design alone and he rolled onto his back to better enjoy the hilarity of the tacky Gothic print. Before long, Dean was laughing outright as he set up miniature piles of the pamphlets.

When he turned one over to find a picture of one of the company's tour guides, he froze and a grin so stupid that it lowered the IQ just to look at it spread over his face. "Aaaand we have a winner, Bob," he muttered with unholy glee as he read the poor bastard's name. "Let's tell Belladonna Loveless what she's won."

Upon further examination, he discovered that Midnight Horror Ghost Tours offered three different options to the willing victim – a cemetery tour, a voodoo tour, and a ghost tour. Ghosts of the French Quarter, specifically, as if anyone in their little touristy minds gave a damn about Ghosts of the Irish Channel or Ghosts of Storyville. Dean wondered which tour would have the vampires and then decided that it was probably the cemetery one which meant he was going to nix that one. Asking him to behave on a ghost tour was probably risking enough. Whistling under his breath, he flipped through the little glossy brochure again. Voodoo or ghost?

As the word "orgy" caught his eye, though, he snickered again, decision made. Rolling onto his side, Dean reached for the phone and dialed. As he waited for the other person to pick up, he reflected that he must have gotten the adult version of the brochure… Or else those who ran the tours hated kids and never wanted them to lend a ray of sunshine to their horrible goth-ness of being. Just then the phone clicked and he found himself far too busy sounding like a suitably fascinated and serious tourist to further ponder the amusing quirks of people who thought death was sexy.

He almost lost it, though, when he gave over his name for the reservation and a soft, wordless gasp of excitement down the line answered it. Ironic how this time around he was Montague Summers. Complete head-up-his-ass syndrome, that guy, but only college professors and vampire would-bes would pick up on it so he came in handy. The chances of either of those people running a dive motel were slim to none. "Yeah, uh huh." His mouth twitched in helpless amusement. "Yeah, distant ancestor, I guess… Nope, never read the book… Yeah, I know I should… Okay. 8 sharp, it is… Jackson Square, cathedral, yep."

Hanging up with a satisfying click, Dean flopped back against the pillows and indulged in the snickers until a sudden rumble from his stomach reminded him that he had previously emptied it completely. He rubbed at it thoughtfully for a moment as he studied a crack in the ceiling. Hangover? What hangover? Winchesters had iron constitutions and steel-clad livers. Tentatively, he imagined a plate of bacon and eggs and hash browns. His stomach raised no objections. So far so good. He added sausage to his mental plate. Still nothing. Okey dokey. Then he poured maple syrup over it all until it floated.

When his stomach stayed exactly where it was, he grinned and pushed himself upright. Iron constitution and steel-clad liver in functioning order, check. It was time for breakfast. Then a quick call to Dad just for check-in's sake. Dean kind of doubted his father would be overly concerned if he didn't call semi-regularly but it made him feel better to pretend it would bother the man if he didn't have a little Dean-message on his phone at least weekly if they were apart. After all, you never knew. It might. If nothing else, it would be a pain in the ass hunting down anything that killed his eldest son. Not to mention never letting Dean live down the shame. Even if he _was_ dead.

Absently plucking his boot knife from the desk and propping his foot on the chair at the desk to tuck the shining blade into place, he glanced out the window. He tugged the leg of his jeans down to cover the weapon and then half-rested his chin on his upraised knee as he considered the brightening view outside. Which way had the leggy blonde gone? Riverwards?

He straightened and swung his leg down. He eyed his tattered leather jacket for a moment before shaking his head and slipping his wallet into his back pocket. If last night had been a good sample of New Orleans humidity, he wasn't about to slowly poach himself in leather. Anyway, it was clearly already warm enough outside for tiny shorts. Lips curved in the Devil's own grin, Dean grabbed up his room key and slipped from the hotel room. Yeah, breakfast towards the river was a great idea.

* * *

Apparently, the iron Winchester constitution was proof against even the warm humidity of a New Orleanian springtime and, come eight o'clock, Dean still found himself disgustingly chipper and ready for mischief. It didn't help that he had been blissfully playing the tourist-rogue all day with gusto. As if following a list he had found in some guidebook years ago, Dean had worked his way through the French Quarter – beignets at the Café Du Monde, a wander through the Market, a po'boy at a place called Mama Tooley's, some street-corner jazz, a good gawk in an alleged-voodoo shop complete with shrine, a hilariously off-the-mark tarot reading at a pokey little psychic shop. Him feeling the "cold hand of despairing eternity"? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He shrugged his shoulders, rolling them back and then forward, hands still in the pockets of his tatty jeans as he made his way to the tall, beckoning steeple of St. Louis'. He hoped he had scored Belladonna for his tour. A wicked grin flickered into life. Now that would be lots of fun. He wondered if he should tell her to call him "Monty."

Hearing a noise just off to his right, he slowed his pace and glanced over curiously. Nothing appeared for a moment and then, with a rustle of leaves, two children burst from the bushes, one clearly chasing the other as they laughed. With his own crooked smile, Dean neatly stepped to one side to avoid the little hellions as they tore through the greenery of Jackson Square and disappeared out the set of tall black iron gates he had just come through. Kids, heh. Wasn't it kind of late for them? Then he paused a little longer, watching a streetlight flicker on, before shaking his head and slouching on towards his night's fun.

The moment he was through the far gates of the Square, Dean knew the brochure hadn't lied and he beamed wide. Amongst a scattering of other tourists, the duly designated representative of Midnight Horror Ghost Tours stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb and the fact that she so clearly matched his image of what should be leading their merry band made him feel like it was Christmas morning. Sauntering up casually, he stood just at the edge of the group and surveyed her from the top of her head to her toes. It was too perfect. The hair was too fake, too black. The eye make-up made Tammy Faye Bakker look restrained. The clothing… Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep his expression down to a smirk. As she introduced herself as Viviana de Sade, he looked around to inspect his fellow tourists.

A couple in their early twenties stood to one side, holding hands, barely listening as they stared at each other. He rolled his eyes. Three middle-aged women stood on the other side of the guide and quietly talked amongst themselves. Four teenagers gave Viviana their rapt attention as she began talking about Pere Antoine and Pere Dagobert. One of them even took notes. He was the only single party in the group, he realized. Then a flicker of movement caught his eye and he turned his head to observe a lone, late arrival.

Okay, so he wasn't the only single in attendance. Dean shot the woman an inviting smile even as he gave her a quick elevator-eyes once-over. When she ignored the look, he considered feeling insulted or maybe sidling over for a conversation. She was certainly nicer on the eyes than Viviana. He had always been a jeans kind of guy and she wore her ancient pair really well. Watching her tuck her hands into the back pockets and rock back on her heels, her attention clearly on the tour guide, he tilted his head and took his time on a second study to notice the fitted t-shirt and the sturdy boots and the pony tail. College girl, maybe? Hey, now. Sorority girl. So that's why Sam was all hot and bothered to get into Stanford.

Suddenly, she moved and he snapped his attention away from her lean form to catch Gothetta inform them all that she would now be leading them down Chartres Street to see the Beauregard-Keyes House. "Site of frequent nightly battles of soldiers that can no longer die, chess-players who can never win, and a horrific scene of wise guy violence," she droned hollowly as she began walking them down the road.

Dean raised his hand and beamed innocently. He took her owlish blink at him to signal a go-ahead. "Wise guy?" he asked.

"Mafia" came the muttered answer from the blonde to his left. He rewarded her with a wink and she raised her eyebrows at him wordlessly before turning her attention back to the guide.

"Um, yes. Mafia. That's right." Viviana smiled brightly to show off just how white her teeth were in comparison to her black lipstick. "This way, please. It's only a few blocks and please stick together, everyone," she added cheerfully. "This city is consistently ranked in the top ten of U.S. cities when it comes to murder." Boot heels clacking in a disgustingly brisk and horrifically chipper manner, she set the pace up the road.

"Well, isn't that a cheerful thought?" Dean mumbled after a block, moving to keep pace with the blonde. "Think they've thought about using that for the city seal? It's got a ring to it."

"Mm." She shifted her hands from her back pockets to hook her thumbs in her front belt loops and he eyed the action appreciatively. She hardly flicked a glance his way. "Y'know, the money you paid is for the tour, buddy," she added dryly. "Not looking at my ass… Or other places on my anatomy."

He grinned, half-laughing, and shoved his hands into his own pockets. "Well, I could buy you a drink as admission?" he offered cheerfully. "I hear we're supposed to be stopping at Lafitte's on this little trip."

"So help me. If you say something about shoes, shirts, or the alphabet…" Before she could finish her sentence, Viviana cleared her throat and lifted her hands to signal they should stop in front of a buttery yellow house with white trim and a distinct would-be Parthenon flair to its architecture. Dean noted that she was wearing black-lace, fingerless gloves. Somehow that delighted him even more and he abandoned his focus on the woman beside him for the time being to listen as the caricature leading them launched into a recitation of the various sorts of supernatural baggage the house held. He considered raising his hand again, asking how there could possibly be Civil War battles in a location where the war hadn't touched. In the end, he opted to leave it alone; he had scanned the list of planned sites and there were some better spots coming. So he merely arranged his face in his most innocent of expressions, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and gave every indication of listening raptly.

Besides, if the cute blonde was going to ignore him for the time being, he might as well ignore her.

Before long, however, Dean was so caught up in his internal sniggers that the tunnel-vision became self-fulfilling. Up Gov. Nicholls and across Royal, he held his tongue and nodded, feeling like one of those stupid dolls with the too-big heads that wobbled. As Viviana pointed up at the ornate, iron-work balcony of the Lalaurie house, he tilted his head to one side and wrinkled his nose. The story was gruesome enough and then some, he knew, but there wasn't even a whiff of ozone around the tall mansion. The bodies had been removed ages ago, after all, and probably even buried half-decently out of shame. He half-listened to the story of the little slave girl who was often seen running across the balcony in terror before plunging to her death below. A grimace twisted his mouth. Shit, people were messed up.

He stood, looking upwards for long moments as the others moved away again on the trek. At the words "Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop," though, he perked up and rejoined the group with a faint whistle that continued down to St. Phillip's and right on up to Bourbon. The blonde shot him an incredulous look after a block and a half and he paused just long enough to grin widely at her. She shook her head and went back to ignoring him determinedly.

As they approached the hodgepodge creation of brick and plaster and wood, though, the whistle gave a final long, low trill of appreciation and ceased. She glanced over her shoulder to see Dean standing on the sidewalk and smiling up at the centuries-old building in a vaguely brainless manner. Snorting under her breath, she slipped through the wide, shuttered doors with the rest of the group.

Remaining behind for a few moments, Dean canted his head to one side to better study the infamous bar. He finally decided that it looked about right. Whether or not it had actually served as a front for the Pirates Lafitte as Gothetta claimed made no difference. It looked comfy as hell, served alcohol, and the smell reminded him of dozens of other places he had set foot in all over the country. It might be a tourist trap, he thought with amusement, but that never meant the beer wasn't good. With a broad grin, he welcomed himself in and nudged his way to the bar to order a beer for him and the promised price of admission for his stand-off, fellow tourist.

The sojourn at Lafitte's pushed to nearly forty-five minutes and all but had Viviana fluttering in her anxious concern for the schedule. Dean wove his fingers together and put them behind his head, idly stretching as he allowed her to herd him back out onto the sidewalk. He gave her an innocent, sweet smile on the way past despite the urge to laugh at the sudden image of her as a big, black butterfly. There wasn't even the slightest hint of the two boilermakers he had consumed to the look and he was rewarded with what might have been a bit of a blush beneath the three layers of white-face. Reassured at his unsurpassed way with the ladies (overcoming the polite stonewalling he continued to receive from College Girl – Sam would have found it hysterical), he resolved to behave better for her.

As they stood in front of the Sultan's Palace ten minutes later, though, Dean regretted his hasty vow. He had forgotten about this stop. He had forgotten the blurb in the pamphlet. Resolutely, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back a bit on his boot-heels, pursing his mouth with determination. When Gothetta started talking about the variety within the Sultan's harem, he closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth. Nice. He would not say it. He wouldn't. A sudden jab to his side caused his eyes to fly open and he barely restrained himself from throwing a punch. Seeing who had done it to him, he was especially glad not to have decked her.

"And what's your problem now?" hissed the blonde. She stood close and her words barely had to cross any air between them. She clearly had no intention of letting their tour guide overhear her.

Turning ever so slightly, he offered a look of innocence that tried desperately to imply that he had only just opened his eyes to the world five minutes prior. "Who, me?" he asked and then had to avoid choking on his own laughter that he had actually opted for those two words.

She stared at him in clear disbelief and silence settled just long enough for Viviana's words "rumors soon spread of the orgies" to drift in between them. The corner of Dean's mouth twitched in mutiny of his control, eyes clearly telegraphing the strain that his good behavior was placing on him. The blonde looked away quickly but not quite quick enough. Dean rarely missed much when it came to visual markers and his attention was all the more honed when it came to something of interest and the flicker of amusement she couldn't quite stifle? That was _definitely_ of interest.

Encouraged, Dean politely raised his hand and waited for Gothetta to acknowledge him. When she did, it was with clear reluctance which quickly melted under his most charmingly cocky grin. "So, Miss de Sade…" Score points for the formality, she preened slightly at the ring of her own name. "When EMF readings are done on this location…" The nods started, delight in her expression. "Does it sound classy like Playboy or kind of dirty like Spice?"

He watched her mouth open and shut a few times in wordless horror. He felt the distasteful glares from the middle-aged women. He heard the shocked gasp from one or the other of the intent little students. Tilting his head to one side, he merely kept grinning at the poor tour guide.

Even as he heard a strangled noise that just might have been laughter off to his right from the leggy blonde. Which made being banished to the back of the group and the sudden quick-step-march that Gothetta set down St. Peter's Street pretty much worth it. The Sultan's Palace was soon behind them and everyone dutifully ignored the uncouth man and Dean wondered when he had ever had more fun.

When they came to a halt outside 734 Royal Street, he received a warning look, dark with eyeliner and mascara and loathing. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged back easily as if to show how willing he was to behave again. His effort was rewarded with another glare. Idly, he rocked back on his heels and craned his neck back to squint up at the house's fence-edged widow's walk. A flicker of something in a window caught his attention and he stepped closer, brows furrowed. The night air hung heavy on the skin and the smells of stale alcohol and growing green things and some sort of dampness tickled his nose.

In the background, the story of the Steadfast Mistress droned onwards. Every other word or so registered but his mind was fixed on the walkway and the roof. That was where she had died, frozen to death on an impossibly cold December in the Big Easy. That was where her ghost was seen. Julie.

And it was the first honest-to-God ghost on the whole damn tour because, over the booze and the plant life, he could pick up hints of ozone. Dean frowned as he slid his hands from his pockets and moved one up to scratch the nape of his neck. He glanced to his right and saw College Girl staring intently upwards as well.

"And his heart broke as he held her lifeless, frozen, little body. After that night, he no longer smiled or took interest in anything. He became like a ghost himself, hovering around the house, waiting for something. Finally, after a couple of months, he gave up and he too passed away. Just as the ground softened for spring, his life left and he…"

A low, soft scraping sound caught his attention over the drone and Dean tensed, shoulders going up and back even as his eyes snapped upwards to the balcony again. An overdone terracotta pot, heavy with flowers, looked awfully close to that edge now. Before he could manage to even begin to calculate if the damn thing had indeed moved, though, it suddenly tipped with a grating noise and began the downward plummet.

But that was okay, really, because Dean was already in motion. The muttered "shit" only added to the power of his push as he barreled into the blonde. His arms wrapped around her tightly to cushion the blow to her upper body as he took her to the hard macadam roughly. The angle was horribly wrong, unfortunately, and he had no time to roll with it. He landed hard, half on top of her, driving all breath from her body.

The pot shattered where she had been standing. Dirt sprayed in all directions, rewarded by shrieks and screams. He felt it hit his back and he could have sworn that a marigold or whatever the heck those little frilly yellow flowers were slapped the back of his neck. Dean ignored it. The view beneath him was way more interesting than botany. "Hey," he drawled. "What was that price of admission again?"

Big brown eyes stared up at him and, if he had been a bit more perceptive, if he had been a bit less _Dean Winchester_, he would have noticed that the expression within was not fear or gratitude. Not at all. Slowly, she licked her lips. Then she smiled sweetly. He returned the look with a grin.

Therefore, he didn't even see the awkward right hook coming until it landed and forced him off to the side. He rolled over and sat up, blinking at her. "What the hell?" he mumbled and gingerly touched his cheek. It had been such a bad angle that it wasn't even going to leave a mark but what the hell kind of thank you was that?


	2. Chapter 2

He figured twenty minutes was more than enough time to wait before talking again. Blissfully, fifteen of those minutes had been killed by a shrieking Gothetta and her bevy of charges. Between the time it took to shake off the punch and then to shake off the onlookers, Dean calculated he'd spent more than enough time being polite and restrained. Now that he and the blonde were hidden away in the back corner of the darkest, most disreputable bar they could find and each had their own alcoholic therapy in front of them, well, it was time to get some facts straight.

He wrapped both hands around his pleasantly icy bottle of beer and tilted his head to one side, gifting her with an amused grin. "So why the hell did you punch me again?"

She met his smile with only a faint lift of an eyebrow, her brown eyes noncommittal. "Because you're a jackass," she answered mildly.

"Fair enough." He sat back and nodded cheerfully before lifting his drink for a long swallow. "Saving you from flowery death really is the worst thing a guy could do."

"Not that I needed saving but," she paused to look down into her own bottle, finger tracing the rim, "that's not why I punched you, anyway." She waited until he snorted a bit and had his bottle to his mouth again before adding, "It was more how you felt the need to check my bra size while doing it."

To her delight, he choked noisily and she didn't bother hiding her giggles as he pounded a fist against his sternum and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As the hand came away, though, he simply grinned at her, completely unrepentant. "It was a perk," he admitted. "'Course it also let me get a handful of that knife under your shirt and what's around your neck again?"

In an unconscious movement, her hand went to her own sternum and pressed flat. She smoothed away all amusement. "What was that?"

"Charm bag." Dean lifted his drink and motioned towards her with it expansively. "You've got a nifty little baggy of what-all under there. What is it? Native American? Voodoo?" He settled back in his chair comfortably and watched her blank face with laughing eyes. The faint touch of pink high on her cheekbones showed what was either temper or embarrassment. Whichever it was, it was not only kind of cute but it also proved she didn't have herself so under control after all. He sipped his beer, drawing out the moment, waiting.

Finally, she inclined her head slightly and muttered, "Gris gris." He smirked knowingly and she pulled a disgusted face as she hunched forward to toy with her bottle. "So what about your spirit beads?" she added mildly. "Those for vanity or are you a big superstitious teddy bear?"

"What? These old things?" With a broad grin, he obligingly lifted his hand and shook his wrist. She rolled her brown eyes and he froze in position, tilting his head only to have a crease appear between his eyebrows. Then he shook his head and the look was gone. "I'm Dean," he announced and the abrupt switching of gears left her blinking as he continued, "And don't do that 'cause you remind me of my little brother and you're way cuter." He stuck out a hand, clammy with the beer's condensation. "Start over?"

"Becca." Her hand clasped his firmly for a moment and she angled her head slightly before releasing him. "Becca Collins," she clarified. "Before you ask, yes, I'm here on business." Her fingers touched the small pouch at her throat again. "Which you probably figured out already."

"Did I?" Dean widened his eyes for a moment and then he laughed. "I wasn't going to assume, y'know? Job or not, most of us are into protection." His expression bordered on hilarity again at her delicate lift of an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm real into that, yeah, but we just met so..."

"So you're not on a job, then? You're just here?"

"Why? Is something going on?" Dean folded his arms on the table in front of him and leaned forward, eyes sobering a bit and clearly dragging his attention into more suitable lines of inquiry. "I just finished up a little bit of voodoo out at a house by the lake. I hadn't heard about anything else."

"That's because you were playing wise-ass during the tour." Becca lifted a hand and signaled for another round of drinks. Then she settled back in her chair, eyes searching his face. "Do you usually do that?"

"Maybe. What did you catch?"

"A change on Royal Street." She looked down at the tabletop and wrinkled her nose, hands moving up to trace a finger along the grain of the wood. Licking her lips, she hesitated. "Did you read up on any of the ghost stories on that tour before crashing it or did you..."

"Hey, now. I didn't crash it. I paid fair and square." She shot him a disbelieving look and he grinned, sheepish. "More or less. But, sure, I know some of them. Like the Sultan's Palace." He paused, flashing a grin at the waitress who brought over two more beers. Then he waited until the petite brunette had reached safe distance once again. Idly, he toyed with the neck of his new bottle. "What kind of change?"

"Flower pot sorts of changes."

He frowned. "Come again?" Then, even as the second syllable left, Dean nodded; he was too experienced a Hunter to not be able to do quick sums in his head. Flower pot plus Hunter equals an up in the spooky activity. Or something to that effect. "Gotcha. Someone's gotten uppity, huh?"

"In an increasingly life-threatening way, you'll notice." Looking down, Becca rubbed at the grain of the wood again. "734 Royal Street is getting dangerous. None of us ever bothered with it before because, well, how worked up can you get over a naked ghost who just stands there for a moment and then goes back inside?" She paused for a moment and seemed to consider her audience before a faint, crooked smile appeared on her face, wry and amused. "Except maybe someone like you, huh?"

"That's not quite fair. I'm sure there's plenty of other guys around here worried she'll catch a cold." Somehow he managed to swallow some of his beer without choking on the liquid; divine retribution would have to get up early in the morning to catch out Dean Winchester. "I mean, this _is_ the French Quarter." Feeling her eyes on him, he sobered again and set down his bottle. "No, you're right," he admitted. "There's too many freakin' ghost stories to go chasing them all down. If they don't make noise, don't worry about them. Well," he hesitated, amending his own words with hardly a thought, "at least don't put them on the top of the list."

The look she gave him at that was strange but he answered it with a vague shrug, missing the meaning behind it. Becca shook her head and again toyed with her bottle. "I guess you can say that," she relented. "Not when they kick it up, though. Julie's showing some temper and not everyone is going to be as lucky as me to miss that projectile."

"So where are the bones?" There was a long pause which Dean neatly interpreted. "No bones. What? Was she murdered and dumped?"

"You really didn't do any research at all," she murmured in something that came very close to awe. Brown eyes searched his open face as if trying to find the punch line. Finding nothing, she blinked and sat back in her chair with a huffing sigh before lifting a hand to rub over her face. "But you did your job and you're on vacation, right. Sorry." He tilted his head and the corner of his mouth crooked up to award her points in deduction. She half-smiled in response but then closed her eyes. "Don't worry about it, Dean," she finished mildly. "It'll be routine and you probably deserve a nice rest. I mean, it's not like we take off regularly. No weekends for us."

Quiet fell between them for a moment, overlaid by the eruption of the house band, all ballsy guitar riffs and heavy drum beat. Dean vaguely noted that it was a half decent cover of "Born On The Bayou" but his real attention focused on the woman opposite him. His study was only fifty per cent leer at the glimpse of toned stomach and the way her shirt pulled at her stretch; the other half evaluated the way she moved and the memory of her right hook in a business-like manner which would have shocked almost anyone who had ever met him. Slouching back further in his chair, he tilted his head. "Is the research back at your place?" he asked finally.

"Excuse me?"

"Dates, sightings, whatever. She's got a story, right?" At Becca's answering blink, Dean laughed and rolled his eyes. "C'mon, I'll help you out. Vacations are overrated, anyway. I've already had a hangover and done the tourist crap. What else is there?" He grinned, waiting expectantly.

Finally, Becca sighed, pushed herself upright, and fished out a wallet, throwing a handful of bills onto the table. "Come on, yourself," she returned and the grudging acceptance of his offered help only barely pinged his ego. "Maybe you'll see something I missed."

* * *

"Here it is." The blonde neatly stepped out of his way, allowing Dean freedom to wander deeper into her hotel room as she closed the door. Without thinking, she locked it and the sharp click made him glance over his shoulder with a tactless leer. "Habit," she answered but did not move to unlock it, instead dipping a hand into a little pot sitting on a chair to emerge with enough salt to complete the circle across the door once more. "Don't worry, Dean," she laughed. "If I take advantage of you, the door won't need locking. Have a seat." 

He let his gaze wander vaguely and then, pushing a pair of kitten-print pyjamas out of his way, he dropped onto the end of the bed, arms braced behind him as he looked up at her. "Well, taking advantage is what you're doing, isn't it?" he drawled, still grinning. "I was on vacation and you're dragging me to your room to talk about nakedness."

"Nudity," she corrected absently. Then she shook her head, unable to keep from smiling back at him. The simple audaciousness of him stepped too firmly over the line of manners to be worth scoldings. It was amazing and probably a long-tried defense mechanism. "And you volunteered for this, cowboy, so don't even start with me. You're the worst kind of us, you know. You like this shit more than you do normalcy."

He snorted at her assessment, chin ducking as he watched her. "So is this you kicking me out?" he asked with all the dewy innocence of a veteran hooker.

"No way. You signed up for research and research you'll get." With that declaration, Becca yanked open a drawer to withdraw a stack of notebooks. She paused just long enough to select the top two, dropped the rest back in the drawer, and crossed to drop her body across the bed behind Dean. "Here," she offered as she flipped the first one open to a dog-eared page. He obediently swung his weight around to sit closer, leaning forward with the double bonus of seeing her work and pressing his shoulder against hers. She ignored the violation of personal space and pointed at a section, short fingernail tapping at a few lines. "Her name was Julie Lapointe and she was an octoroon."

"Want to clear that one up?"

"One eighth black. They were, uh, really goddamn picky back then."

"No kidding." Dean shifted forward, eyes on the page, reading ahead and pretending that his hand hadn't migrated to her shoulder to balance himself as he leaned. "She was a mistress, huh? Is this a love-revenge thing, you think?"

She ignored his touch just as well as he did and shook her head. "I don't know. Her lover died about a month later," she explained. "Just wasted away. Not ghost-sick, though, as far as I could tell. Whatever took him, it wasn't her."

"And she hasn't done anything until..?" He trailed off, looking sideways at her profile, trailing off pointedly. She shook her head again. "We talking weeks or months here? I mean, she just tried to kill you tonight so what kind of ramping up are we talking about?"

Becca turned a page to show him a column of dates, dashes, and notes that stretched halfway down the page. "It's been three months until we got to this point. Far as I can tell, I'm the first person she's really made a good go at."

Unable to stop himself, he snickered in response to her matter-of-fact tone. "Right. Aren't you lucky?" He reached across to trail a finger down the list, an aid to skimming. "Anything linking these events?" A wicked little smile played at his lips. "Any more blondes in tight jeans?"

She lifted an eyebrow, pulled the book away, and neatly shoved him back to his side of the bed with a rough push of her shoulder. "Jackass," she replied mildly before adding, "they've all be witnessed by women alone. No guys were harmed in the making of this spook story. Catty little thing, isn't she?"

"Mm." Dean flopped back and stared at the ceiling. Silence settled for a moment as he organized what lists and tips she had shared into his own coherent mess. Then, half to himself, he muttered, "No bones so no banishing that way. Gotta find why she's done a 180 like this. Then we can…"

"Fix it or just solve it. Either she goes back to just prancing around on the balcony naked or else she goes for good. New Orleans has a high enough murder rate without the spooks throwing their hands in. Yeah." She dropped her second notebook over on his stomach and then relaxed down across her end of the bed. Closing her eyes, she also fell back into silence. Hands folded over the first notebook, resting on her own stomach, she waited.

He listened to her breathe, slow and measured, as he held up the problem at hand. Dammit, he hated complicated ones. His own job had gone so smoothly. Find, burn, done. Simple and on he went to his well-deserved rest. She had been disturbingly right about him, though. The tourist routine already played out in only a day, he was looking for the ghosts and monsters again. This ghost, however, would be a bitch. He pictured the pages from her notebook in his mind, holding them there to better focus. Mistress, marriage, a really shitty challenge… Then freezing to death on a rooftop in New Orleans. Who the hell froze to death in _New Orleans_, anyway? The place was muggier than… Well, it was hotter than hell a lot of the time. Julie didn't bother anyone for a good hundred-plus years. Now she was trying to kill people. What had changed?

Rolling over onto his side, Dean squinted at Becca. "You find anything that would've gotten her panties in a twist three months ago?"

"The house was sold. I haven't gotten in to see if they did anything to it yet."

He covered his face with a hand, groaning. "Oh, come on. Becca, you've got to throw me a bone here. Research isn't going to cut this one." Suddenly, he drew his hand away slowly and grinned at her, adding in an inept eyebrow wiggle. "Got it. You just wanted to get me home. Hey, that's cool."

Laughing, she introduced her pillow to his face and shoved. "You pretty much invited yourself so don't start with me. All I'm looking for is some help here."

He tugged the pillow down and peered over the top at her. "Who bought it?"

There was a moment of quiet as she fought to adjust to his quick switch of topics. She flipped open the notebook again. "Some little corporation looking for a tax break in keeping up a historical house. The bottom floor is a kitschy shop and the top floors are… Well, the proposal was to turn them into a small-fee time-capsule museum. The shop pays the rent; the museum looks good for the company and provides something to put on those tax forms." She wrinkled her nose in the gesture that he had already associated with her bringing up filed thoughts. "The museum isn't open yet, though, and I couldn't find ads for it so I don't know if they've worked on it. If they've altered the layout or something…" She lapsed into thoughtful silence, setting the notebook back on her stomach, open yet, spine bending.

Suddenly, Dean leaned over top of her, offering a grin as he tucked her pillow back into place. Then he focused square on her face. "How are you at lock-picking?"


	3. Chapter 3

In the French Quarter, night was more a myth than Big Foot. Darkness never invaded anywhere completely and the lights were always a touch too bright just over thataway as the noise of people determined to have a good time drifted out of bars to disturb the peace. Even the quieter sections, blissful blocks from Bourbon Street, still breathed loudly in the dimness. A distant shout, a dog bark, a stereo system turned up just a little bit too loud.

And the streetlights? They were _fantastic_. Dean squinted at the one that flickered epileptically just to their left. Well, that's what happened when a tourist city tried to pretend it didn't have a top-level murder rate. Of course, it also made it a royal bitch and a half to B&E your way into anywhere. Especially this close to Jackson Square.

He leaned idly against the wall and watched as Becca cursed under her breath, taking a hand from the lock she was working at to suck briefly on her thumb. "Break a nail?" he asked lightly, lowly.

"Mm, I'll break yours." She frowned in concentration at the window. "I'd like to see you bypass an electronic system like this and then face a goddamn Fort Knox lock."

"Nobody trusts anybody anymore, huh?" That earned him an absent half-smile and he relaxed back against the cooling brick a happier man. "Sure you don't want help?" Focused again, she only offered a faint grunt to the negative. He watched her for another few moments and then slipped down the wall to crouch at her bag. He hesitated for an instant in the timeless manner of a man faced with a purse before shaking his head and shoving his hand deep inside to feel around for the EMF meter. It wasn't like it was a real purse, anyway. Becca didn't strike him as the type to keep tampons next to her rock salt. At least he hoped she didn't.

"It's in the front pocket," she said under her breath. Then, with a soft gasp, she heard the click and tugged the picks from the lock. "And we're in."

"Excellent." Dean glanced over with a bright smile before returning to his search again. His fingers brushed cool metal and he tugged out the meter. Approvingly, he noted that hers was solid, a good make and model. Of course, it lacked the fun and sense of accomplishment of his but not everyone could be a homegrown MacGyver. His automatic check for batteries within did not go unnoticed, however, and Becca made a soft sound that just might have been laughter. When he looked up, though, her face only held attentive wariness as she set her hand to the door and pushed gently. "By the way," he began lowly, "what kind of place in New Orleans has burglar alarms that can be knocked out with some alligator clips?"

"Sounds like a joke." Becca blindly held out her hand for her bag and he immediately obliged by looping the strap over her outstretched fingers after returning the meter to its home. "The punchline is idiots." She raised her arm and the bag slid smoothly down her arm and a rough shrug brought it up over her shoulder. "C'mon. Time to be all larcenous and stuff."

He allowed her to go first, mostly because he was busily indulging in a moment of shock that someone other than his brother used a word like 'larcenous' in normal, everyday conversation. Maybe Becca really was a college girl. He smirked to himself before following her through the door and pulling it shut again behind them, easing it with the expertise of a seasoned house-breaker. Sam would so want to take Becca out for coffee and a poetry reading. The wimp.

Pausing at the bottom of the steps, Becca motioned upwards in silent question. He nodded firmly. There was no way a sensible spook was hanging on the first floor, home of kitschy tourist goodness and a curtained area for a psychic. Dean only paused long enough to peer through the archway in order to double-check his notion. The sight of a paisley curtain and a little display rack of "voodoo dolls" wrinkled his nose and he stepped back into the hallway. Reaching out, he touched light fingers to the small of Becca's back and pushed. "That stuff's insane," he muttered, barely audible. "If any of it's good stuff…"

"Yeah." Becca looked over her shoulder as she moved to stand on the first step. "And I'm going, I'm going." Her mouth twitched in a would-be smile. "You don't have to shove." Dean returned the look with the utmost innocence and, reaching forward, pressed his hand against her back again. She snorted and quickly climbed the stairs, keeping to the outer edges where they were less likely to creak. He watched for a moment in approval before he joined her.

A small light flickered about six inches from the floor on his right and he crouched a bit in the hallway to study it. "Something's interfering with the electricity," he offered. He tapped at the night-light with his index finger – once, twice, but on the third time, it shut down completely and he glanced up sheepishly. "Whoops." Even through the dark, he could feel her staring at him in disbelief and he turned to give the light another flick. It obligingly turned back on. "The wiring can't be that old or it wouldn't pass code."

"Yeah and I'm betting that, if anyone noticed it, they're not talking. Codes mean a lot when you're looking for tax breaks." Absently, she lowered her bag to the floor beside him and kept her brown eyes ahead. Then she stretched out a hand to one side to press her palm against the wall. Her head tilted and she held still.

Dean watched her for a moment and strained his ears in an attempt to hear what she was apparently listening for. Not picking up anything, however, he tugged her bag towards him and went searching again for the EMF meter. Under the dim gleam of the nightlight, he dug a bit deeper. The bag was shapeless canvas, riddled with pockets flush against the inside and bulging with the tools of their obscure trade. He felt his fingers brush against plant life and small bottles and cold metal. He paused and ran his touch over the metal again tentatively – a small gun and, yes, a second clip. Well, he reflected, if you could get away with openly carrying a gun in a city, it might as well be New Orleans. He glanced up at Becca as his hand closed on the meter and he frowned to see her still holding position. He had never seen anything like it; she did not seem to be using anything other than her normal senses and deep thinking. Weird chick. He shook his head slightly and drew out the instrument, turning it on with a quick flick of a finger. The display came on in immediate obedience.

"There's something wrong here."

Dean looked up from the EMF's flickering lights. "Feeling a disturbance in the Force?" he asked mildly.

"Don't be an asshole." Becca frowned but didn't even glance down at him. "There's no such thing."

He almost laughed at that, tempted to point out the inherent stupidity in the statement when they had just broken into a house to check out a ghost which, everyone knew, didn't really exist. Instead, though, he paused and squinted at her for another moment before looking back down at the EMF in his hands. The display numbers held static and then, abruptly, scrolled up the spectrum and back. "Shit," he whispered. Then he raised his eyes to follow Becca's gaze down the hallway. Everything had the obligatory charm of days long gone, adjusted with enough dust and time that you might forget about the slaves that used to perform the upkeep. Becca held her hand out to him, palm upwards. Without another word, Dean placed a flashlight in it and her fingers curled around the cylinder automatically. Switching it on, she aimed it down the long hallway. The light bounced crazily off the silver candlesticks, platters, ornaments. With a twist of her wrist, she angled it towards one wall and squinted. "What's up?" he asked quietly. He tugged her gun out without asking permission and stood. Her bag got kicked to the side silently by a booted foot as he took up position behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, lifting an eyebrow at his neat and careless appropriation of her tools. Then she turned back and squared her shoulders. "You'd think she'd be right on us," she murmured. "We're right here in her house and, hey, I'm a chick."

"Not to mention the meter just went wonky." The fact that he let a chance to comment on her particular indications of womanhood only served to underscore the unease of the situation. He nodded, indicating she should move forward with a faint jerk of his chin. "More than one?" he asked under his breath. "That'd be just _swell_."

Despite her back being towards him, Dean swore he could feel the force of the eye-roll and a faint smile flickered over his face. It was like working with Sammy again… But only if Sammy had a hot ass. When she edged forward, though, he refocused his attention higher and shadowed her. He pressed his back firmly against the wall and brought the small gun up to point it towards the ceiling. Then he stepped closer to follow her own movements. One step, two steps… She crested the first doorway in the long hallway and angled her body to better peer through it. The sudden pause that ran through her whole body was enough to set off all the warning signals and Dean neatly stepped around her to face the room within head-on.

At first, he could not see what had made his companion tense up so badly - like a nun in a brothel, really. The lighting was indistinct and the moon hovered at exactly the wrong angle outside the window to be of any use. He squinted for a moment before deciding it was useless. Taking one hand from the gun, he reached forward to grab her wrist and swing the flashlight in an arcing movement through the room. Dust particles glimmered in the light and dark velvets and rich woods flickered in and out of view. Something towards the bed moved, though, and he quickly forced her hand in the direction. "What the fuck?"

"More than one," Becca echoed his earlier words softly. "And he's sure as hell not Julie."

At the mention of the dead woman's name, the ghost shifted uneasily on the bed. It lifted a transparent hand as if to motion them closer and its head turned in their direction as well. Dean had the impression of dark eyes and a solemn mouth. Narrowing his eyes a bit more, he could make out the faint outlines of a patrician face – male – with thin cheeks and a high-bridged, narrow nose. He released Becca's wrist and sank into a crouch to better reach for the bag. Her foot against his hip stopped him and he looked up at her with confusion. She shook her head. He frowned. "You don't have salt?" he asked in clear disbelief. "You've got every other thing and the kitchen sink in here."

"Does he look like he's doing anything other than sitting there pathetically?" Becca cracked a weak smile. "I mean, look at him. Really look at him." She lifted the flashlight again to shine directly on the apparition and Dean watched as it cringed away, hands thrown up to cover its face. She lowered the light again and the ghost relaxed. "That has got to be the most pointless ghost I've ever seen." The dimness returned, the ghost took on a bit more substance, the edges thickening into definition. In the filtered moonlight, they could now see that he was dark-haired and wearing decidedly old-fashioned clothing. He lifted his hand again and they could see the wall behind him through it easily.

Dean couldn't help it. He started to snicker. "Dude, Casper could take that guy!"

"Probably." Becca barely cracked a smile at his joke but he could see laughter in her brown eyes. "Still you've got to wonder what he's doing here." Casting another glance back out into the hallway to see if their true target had materialized, she moved further into the room.

He stepped forward to stand in the doorway and managed to keep an eye both on the hall outside and the slim blonde pacing the perimeter of the darkened bedroom. When she paused with her knuckles against a heavy, silver-backed brush, he craned his neck. "What's up?"

"Has he moved?"

"Not an inch. Think he's, well, dead for a spirit?" Dean's nose crinkled and he squinted back at the stationary apparition. "I've heard about lingering echoes but I've never bought into them."

"If he's stuck on the bed, he might be." Becca shrugged and moved on to drag the back of her hand along the edge of the cherry wood dresser. "I mean, spirits tied to objects aren't strange but he's not even trying to come at me."

"Maybe he's checking out your butt." Absently slipping the gun into the waistband of his jeans, apparently forgetting that it was _not at all_ his gun, Dean took another step forward and slid his hand along the wall in search of a switch. "Don't look at me. Like I said, maybe he's an echo or…" He paused as something caught at his attention. Resisting the urge to spin, he very slowly turned his head back towards the bed. "Becca, what's he doing now? Evil undead mime show?"

"I'm not sure." There was a long pause and he saw her approach the massive, sprawling bed daintily. "The outfit's from about the same time frame as Julie, though…" Before she could say another word, though, the clatter of metal against wood echoed down the hall and she jerked back, swinging her wide-eyed gaze to Dean.

He lifted his hands, palm outwards. "I didn't do it."

As the sound of shattering porcelain came hard on the heels of his words, Becca hissed and bolted towards the door, her hand grabbing at his shoulder as she passed. "No kidding," she said. "I think our girl's at it again." He turned to follow her, only to bounce off her back as she pulled to a halt and ducked. "Goddammit."

Neatly, Dean set his hand at the back of her neck and pushed down hard to force her into a full crouch before shoving her sideways towards her bag. He hadn't noticed any flowerpots in the hallway but it was always better to be safe than sorry and keep Becca down low. Julie had already made one attempt on the blonde's life. No point in offering another shot at it. "Shit, she's better than an alarm when she's pitching a bitch-fit," he muttered.

"Which is our cue to get out of here before some civic-minded neighbor calls the cops." Scrambling in a most ungraceful manner, she snatched up her bag and began creeping down the hall, back towards the steps. Dean followed in a slightly less urgent manner, glancing over his shoulder to see the indistinct outline of Julie emerging from the end of the hall, straight through the wall. She lifted a hand, mouth opening, and a vase teetered atop a table. As it finally toppled and shattered, he decided that looking was secondary to avoiding both flying shrapnel and the police.

The two hunters hustled down the steps and out the door just as the night erupted in the telltale sirens and Becca cursed under her breath, hot enough to turn the air blue, before grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him down an alley. "C'mon, c'mon," she muttered. The blue and red lights flashed threateningly to their right and she tugged him harder.

Reaching forward, he snatched the bag from her shoulder and pulled it onto his. "Gotta love how prompt those guys are," he said with a laugh. Then he pushed her towards another alley and they swerved around the corner into the narrow confines, slowing their jog as Royal Street disappeared further and further behind them. As they reached the bright lights of Decatur finally, Becca stumbled to a halt and leaned back against a lamppost. She panted slightly, eyes closing. "Well…"

"Yeah, that was fun." Dean grinned and moved to share the spot with her, hip against the bodywarm metal. "So do you put out on first dates or what?"

She looked at him in disbelief and he merely grinned back harder. Then, quite suddenly, she began laughing until she doubled over, arms wrapped tight around her midsection. "_Asshole_."

Stretching out a hand to flip a piece of her hair out of her downturned face, he laughed with her. "Back at the hotel, Becca. I think we've got some books to look at first."


	4. Chapter 4

"Why didn't they ever write anything useful down about these things?" Dean dropped the handful of photocopies to the bed and rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. His eyes ached from squinting at the old clippings; microfiche never xeroxed well and always gave him a headache. Then he tilted his head back to rest against the padded headboard. Padded headboard - he had to find out what grifts Becca ran to be able to afford something that missed the charm of orange geometrics and gilt.

A soft laugh answered him but there was exasperation beneath the sound and he felt the mattress dip beneath him as his new hunting partner joined him. "Useful like how?" Becca asked mildly. "Like how to take care of the situation in case debutante Deborah comes back as a spook? Somehow I kind of think they didn't believe that would be important."

"Yeah, well, goes to show what they knew." Again, he lifted a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. When the adrenaline of the race from the scene died, it always left him feeling a bit punchy. Not tired exactly but definitely more ready to sleep. The rush was one hell of a present and, idly, he wondered if she felt it, too. "I'm not seeing anything in this stack, anyway," he added in a more serious tone. "I guess they didn't rate a dead mistress big news." His shoulders tensed when he felt her crawl up beside him and push him aside. Cracking an eye open, he made a subvocal sound of annoyance. When all she did was roll her eyes and shove at him again, shifting him further forward on the bed, booted foot knocking a book to the floor, he twisted abruptly. "What?"

She set her hands at his shoulders and pressed down. "Just keep thinking, okay?"

He grunted as she hit a knot and promptly circled her thumb against it. "Okay, okay. Geez, lady." He closed his eyes to better concentrate. "Julie dies of exposure. Her ghost starts showing up on that balcony maybe six months later. The stories really get around over the years but she's never made a move on anyone. She just stands there all Miss December-like. Then her building gets bought and is turned into a tourist trap. So she gets pissed and starts..."

"Going after women." Becca shifted her hands to better reach additional sore spots. "But what about her lover? What do we have on him?"

"Rich dude. From a French family 'round here. He died about a year after she did." He grunted again, head tilting to one side as she prodded at a spot just where his neck and shoulder met. "You said he wasn't haunted to death, though. How do you know?"

"Because his family covered up a suicide."

"But that..."

"He hadn't gone back to the house in New Orleans at all since Julie died. He stayed out on the plantation."

"But that..."

"Ghosts are usually tied to a location or an object, right?"

"Unless they're haunting a person." Dean pulled away from her hands and shifted to sit sideways on the bed, facing her. As good as the massage was feeling, it wasn't helping him think straight at all. He reached up to run a hand through his hair and scowled a bit in thought. "Which I'm betting you have something that says she wasn't haunting him." She nodded. "So she stayed put at Royal Street while he went home to do... Whatever it is rich guys did back then."

The corner of her mouth twitched as she suppressed her smile and instead moved to pick up the photocopies. She flipped through them until she found the one she wanted, folded it in half at a line, and handed it over to him. Then she half-crawled back to the foot of the bed, awkwardly dragging and mussing the coverlet as she went. She retrieved one of her battered notebooks and flipped it open to the middle. Not finding what she wanted, she rustled through another few pages until she found a page filled edge to edge with her curving script. "This'll work. It's the translation." Then she looked over her shoulder at Dean meditatively. "Unless you'd want to read the original?"

"Translation?" He lifted an eyebrow. "Let me guess. The original is in French." He straightened his posture and held out a hand. "Give it here. This is how you know, huh?"

"Pretty much. It's a letter from his sister."

Dean nodded absently as he brought the paper closer and bent his head over it, reading. It took a moment to get used to her style of writing; he was far too used to Sam's up-and-down scribble or their father's slanting, dropped-stroke catscratch. A few minutes passed as he read and he barely noticed as Becca slipped from the bed and moved about the room, picking up and setting down various things. He frowned at the words, forehead wrinkling. Finally, he lowered it and looked up, a bit startled to see Becca standing beside him, watching intently. "Right and this letter was legit?" he asked. She nodded. "And you don't think he was hiding it or lying?"

"Do you?"

"No." He handed it back. "Not if he's that wrecked. He'd be a different kind of wrecked if he was being haunted. He'd..." He paused and scratched the back of his head before falling back against the headboard to stare at the ceiling. "He'd be different. That kind of screws things up more, though. If he died out on the plantation, what's he doing haunting Julie's place?"

Becca shook her head before shrugging. "I don't know. Maybe an item got moved there? The property was still in the family for about three decades after he died. Maybe that's his bed. It would explain why he couldn't leave and come after us."

Dean's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Unless... He can't leave because he can't face her. If I were Julie, I'd be pretty damn pissed at him. I'd blame him for everything. I mean, what kind of jackass makes that kind of promise to a girl?"

She laughed and pushed his legs out of her way so she could perch on the edge of the bed. "Obviously someone less sensitive and kind than you." His grin was immediate and smug and she rolled her eyes. "Back to the point, Mr. Romance." Dropping her arms behind her, she braced them and leaned back a bit, head tilting upwards slightly to watch the ceiling in the same way he was doing. "Something brought him there and he's trapped but he hasn't gone malevolent. Julie, on the other hand, has..."

"Turned into a raving bitch." Dean dropped his head and shifted on the bed until he could spread out her papers again, flicking through her notebook, running a finger down a list, and generally manhandling her possessions without qualm. "I think it's safe to say the new owners had something to do with that one," he added, turning over a page thoughtfully. "Maybe they brought the bed in, too. Nah, never mind. It's an old damn bed. It was probably there when they bought the place. So he's stuck in bed," the corner of Dean's mouth turned up in a wicked quirk but he pressed on, resisting the urge to say something even as his expression telegraphed it, "and she's throwing a fit. You'd think she'd be happy to have him around again. She can take her vengeance out on him."

"Maybe." Becca closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, mouth pursing as she chased down her own thoughts.

Dean looked up from the papers to watch her, a bit fascinated. She really _did_ remind him a bit unfortunately of his brother; Sam followed the Think Method while Dean admitted that he usually did well enough with the "as crap falls out of my mouth" way of sleuthing. Quietly, he stacked a few papers and moved them to one of the bedside tables. Then he settled back against the headboard and waited for a few more moments. When she continued to say nothing, he stretched his leg to bump her hip with his knee. "Hey, Becca. Wanna share what you're thinking?"

"Why did she stay at that end of the hall?" she asked without even reacting to his familiar touch. She finally opened her eyes and squirmed back to lean against the headboard beside him. "We were right there and she was royally pissed, right? Why not come at us?"

"... Because something wasn't letting her." Dean made a noise of understanding in the back of his throat. "She's trapped." He twisted to meet Becca's eyes better. "So what's trapping her? And is it just keeping her from us or from him, too?"

"And did someone do it on purpose?" Becca sighed and shook her head. "I don't know. I was kind of preoccupied keeping my head undamaged. Didn't have time to notice any salt lines."

Dean grinned. "You know what that means, right?" He abruptly rolled to one hip and reached across her to plant a hand against the mattress on her other side, his solid upper body crossing over to half-cover her, approximately six inches of personal space respected yet. She lifted a pale eyebrow, wordless. He smirked. "Second date."

* * *

"Y'know, I usually do a lot more research before breaking back into a place," the blonde hissed as she held the flashlight steady for Dean's use.

He glanced up from his work on the lock and grinned. "Really?" he asked lowly. "Like what? We know who they are and why she's stuck. Now we get her unstuck and it's over." Before Becca could reply, there was a low snick and Dean drew his hands back, allowing his picks to slip back into the hollow of his palm while his other hand twisted the knob and pushed. Cautiously, he peered through the spare few inches while he automatically returned the picks from palm to pocket. "Clear," he whispered. Then he straightened to stand upright and held out his newly emptied hand behind him. She dutifully put his sawn-off into it before touching his back, fingers pressing into the space between his shoulder blades. In response, Dean looked over his shoulder and offered her a wink. When she rolled her eyes, he muffled his snicker and stepped silently through the door. With a nod, he motioned her ahead of him up the familiar stairs.

She shot him a dirty look. "You first," she retorted. "She likes men."

"Just trying to be chivalrous and all." He watched her check the shells in her own gun for a moment and then buried another laugh behind the back of his hand. Without another word or look, though, he started up the stairs. This time, he made the effort to look around more carefully. The stairs were wide, carpeted with something that ate dust and hid stains with a garish floral print; it looked black in the dim moonlight. The spindles supporting the bannister shone faintly from the combination of furniture polish and age. As he reached the top, he again noted the awkward, heavy furniture and the faint dimness of dust coating everything. There was a glint against one wall and he frowned. Without looking behind him to check Becca's position, he lifted a hand, two fingers raised, and motioned sideways. Somehow he knew she would understand. Smart girl. Creeping forward gingerly, he kept to the wall, mindful to only present the slimmest profile to any angry naked ghosts that happened to be in the area. A flicker at the end of the long hall brought him up short and he paused, straightening to better peer over his raised shotgun. "Becca?" he hissed across the hall.

"Yeah." His quick glance was rewarded with the sight of her digging in the leather pouch dangling from her belt while she licked her lips. He wondered if it was nerves or habit - like a pre-game ritual. She pulled out a handful of greenery and looked over to check his position. "Going forward?"

"You bet." As Dean approached the doorway to the rich boy's haunt, he instinctively glanced inwards and was mildly surprised to see the shimmering outline of the ex-boyfriend once more. He sat upright, barely visible, and watched. He lifted his hands, palm upwards in supplication, and kept watching as Dean edged past. "Her boy's still in there," he added, lowering his shotgun and tucking it in the bag hanging at his side while he touched the doorjamb to the bedroom. The coolness shocked through his system and he crossed his eyes to see the chill mist of his breath form at the words. Ghost, ahoy.

"Doing what?"

"... Damned if I know. More evil hand charades."

Becca took another few steps down the hall and she looked across in exasperated annoyance. "Dean, get serious. We can't..." She trailed off suddenly and spun to stare down at the end of the hall with wide eyes. "Shit."

Immediately on guard, Dean twisted to see what had her attention now. She stood, level with the carved table and its dusty decorations, too tall and upright. He nearly called out to her, hollering that she should know better and get down, Julie had a hard-on for women. The words died in his throat, however, as the increasingly familiar form of the ghost took a step forward. Julie somehow looked more solid tonight and she was moving far too much like a real person for his comfort. Without taking his eyes off her, he sank to a crouch and lowered his bag to the floor, blindly reaching in to feel around for his sawn-off. "Becca, hold still," he hissed, trying his best to pitch his voice low and carrying. There was no telling what would set a ghost off and, so far, the naked one ahead of his new hunting partner seemed docile enough. Which had him worried and suspicious because when had Julie started being a girl's best friend?

"I'm holding still," she shot back without turning. Her entire frame sang with tension but the gun hanging from frozen arm did not shake. "Can you _please_ just shoot her?"

"Yeah, yeah." His hand closed around the cool, familiar metal of the shotgun and he drew it out in near-silence, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of him There was a new haze around Julie and she lifted a hand. Dean cautiously mirrored her gesture, raising the shotgun. "When I say duck..." He knew he didn't have to finish the order; Becca would understand. Another strange glint to her right made him hesitate for a moment, though. There was something there, something on the wall... He half-turned to see.

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement, an impression of great speed, and Dean swung his gun back to where Julie had stood, finger already tightening on the trigger, and froze. Eyes widening, he stared at nothing more sinister than old-fashioned wallpaper and dust motes drifting a bit in the moonlight. Slowly, he counted to three and then edged forward until he drew level with Becca. He looked at her sidelong. She was pale but still standing, gun still dangling at her side. "Hey." No reaction and he lowered his gun, shifting it neatly to his left hand, before he brought up his right hand to grip the blonde's elbow. "Hey! Hey, Becca. You with me?"

His touch seemed to snap something and she shivered. Only then did she turn her head to look at him. Her pretty face was shadowed and her brown eyes huge. She swallowed deliberately. "I... Yes. Yes, I'm here." She leaned a bit into his touch, body sagging as if exhausted. "What happened?"

Dean moved his hand from her arm to cup her chin and force her head upwards a bit so he could better look down into her face. "That crazy bitch just up and disappeared on us," he muttered. He squinted a bit, eyes narrowing as he inspected her. "Are you okay?"

She blinked a bit before nodding again and leaning into him. She closed her eyes, forehead against his shoulder. "Can we leave? Please?"

"What if..?"

"She's gone." He straightened as he felt one of her arms wind around his and she pulled until she was almost wrapped around him and he could feel the slight shift of her chest against his bicep with each breath. "Please, Dean. I don't..." She paused, drew a deeper breath, and pressed into his solid body even more. "I'm tired. I don't feel right. Let's just leave, please."

He felt an eyebrow raise and definite heebie-jeebies set in at her reaction. While he hadn't known her long, he was pretty certain that a girl who could brush off near-death and then punch him was not about to suddenly get spooked by a disappearing ghost. Carefully, he slid his arm from her grip and moved it to rest along her shoulders. That just brought a deeper frown to his face; she was _shivering_. "Hey. Hey, Becca. It's okay." Some instinct urged him to draw her closer in a one-armed hug and he obeyed. She looked like she had just emerged from some horrible nightmare and he knew those far too well. It was a family habit. As she drew another deep breath, he sighed and looked around the hall again vaguely. No sign of Julie. What the hell was going on?

Gently, Dean pushed Becca away from him and moved to take her gun. With her still shaking slightly, the last thing he wanted was a loaded gun in her hand. "C'mon," he murmured. "Let's get you back to the hotel." He paused. "And you can tell me just what the hell happened there." She nodded, almost eerily docile. He shook his head and quickly tucked both guns in his bag before swinging it up onto his shoulder. Then his hand moved to settle at the small of her back. "C'mon," he repeated. As she obeyed the slight pressure, Dean grimaced again before following her, eyes glued to her back as he watched her unsteady steps.

He totally missed the ghost in the bed covering his face and turning away.

* * *

Two hours later, Dean stood over an uneasily sleeping Becca. Frowning, he rubbed at the back of his head as he searched over her face for what seemed like the thousandth time. She had finally dropped off twenty minutes prior after killing three of the little airline-sized bottles of booze in as many minutes. Though he had asked repeatedly what she had seen in the hallway, Becca had either refused or been unable to answer. What she seemed more than capable of doing, however, was leaning against him, touching him, pressing into his side as they walked back to the hotel and, later, sat on her bed. It took some serious will-power to pry her off and put her down for a nap. Shaking his head, Dean turned away and crossed to the neat stack of notes and binders and books she had left on the desk from their research session. She was neat, he had to give her that - organized, business-like, smart.

He glanced over his shoulder at her and realized that he held his breath as she rolled onto her side. Disgusted, he grunted lowly and shifted his attention back to the desk. Something was definitely out of whack in this picture. His eyes lingered for a moment on a scrap of paper covered in her neat handwriting. He squinted down at it before finally giving in and lifting it to read better. It was the timeline they had discussed before returning to the house - Julie's death, her lover's death, the history of the house. Nothing new there. This was normal. In fact, the whole case until this point yawned itself away. Dean was never much inclined to puzzle out the deeper reasons for hauntings beyond what was needed to banish the thing but... He turned the paper over idly. Sometimes you had to, he reflected. Sometimes some Casper had a reason so big up its butt that you had to get into its head in order to get anywhere with it. He wondered if Julie was like that, if she needed something more than a good salt and burn.

Though a salt and burn would require a body which Becca had unhelpfully proved would be harder to find than a sober guy at a frat party.

There had to be something that was keeping Julie locked in place. Maybe if he went back, alone, he would see it. Becca seemed to be acting as one hell of a distraction on this case. Even if it was her case, Becca fell under the liability category. Julie hated women. Becca was a woman - and what a woman, he caught himself smirking - and that made her a potential target. Dean half-closed his eyes and tried to imagine the house. The door and its familiar handle, the heavy weight of the old door, the fanlight giving a pathetic dimness to everything. The carpet was dark, patterned, smelled funny. It was an old house. Everything creaked when you put your foot wrong. Up the stairs to the hallway. The bedroom with the ghost and the big bed through the first door. Julie would stand at the end of the hallway but, before her, there was a little table and a bowl thing and...

Dean tensed as a hand slipped over his hip to travel up his stomach and stop on his chest, palm flat over his heart. Slowly, he forced his hand to uncurl from the immediate fist and he twisted enough to look over his shoulder. Becca smiled up at him a bit dreamily as she leaned against his back. His gaze traveled past to see a pile of fabric left forlornly on the bed.

Carefully, Dean counted to three. Then he turned his eyes forward again and down to study the delicately calloused hand resting on his chest. Well, then. So a naked girl was pressed up against him. That was fine. That worked really well according to his baser instincts and, somewhat morbidly, he considered the sudden tightness of his jeans. Except this wasn't just a girl. She was a hunter. Who had, strangely enough, shown no interest in getting him flat on his back until this point. Becca had flirted, sure, but he had no delusion that he came before the job. That made sense and was more than fine with him. His dad had long ago forced him under control - except for that bad year when he was seventeen.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Don't think about that year, he told himself firmly. It's on the no-no list. Right below thinking about the obvious curves Becca had which were becoming even more obvious as she started a slow grind against his back. He grunted lowly before managing to swallow. This was not Becca Behavior which meant that turning around and doing what he pretty badly wanted was not cool. Not cool at all. Dean Winchester Rule Number One - You do not screw around with drunk chicks.

Though, if she were really drunk on three tiny bottles, then she was the cheapest date he ever met.

And his conscience still sounded a hell of a lot like his dad.

Still... He brought his hand up and closed it around her wrist, drawing her hand away from his chest. "Becca," he said carefully, "why don't you go back to bed?"

"_Avec moi?_"

Okay, then. Taking a slow breath, Dean pushed her hand away further as he processed both the words and tone. Any thoughts that it was Becca in there evaporated in a heartbeat. For one thing, she certainly knew the only French he spoke was, maybe, the Lady Marmalade song. For another thing, there was no way he needed to know French to understand the perfect leer in her voice. Any hope that she had just suddenly found him irresistible vanished and he stared at the papers in front of him without comment for another few moments. Finally, he brought a snicker up from somewhere deep inside. "Nice. Real nice there." He dared to pat her hand where it had returned to rest on his stomach. He figured she could feel the tension there in the muscles but that was the least of his worries. Knowing she turned him on wouldn't make the situation any better or worse.

Just probably much more uncomfortable when he got her back to normal.

"How about some English?" he suggested carefully.

"If I speak English, will you go with me?" Her words remained unnaturally accented.

"Maybe." Taking a slow, meatured breath, Dean lifted her hand away and turned to face her. He very carefully resisted the urge to look anywhere other than her eyes. She met his gaze without an ounce of shame, instead smiling coyly. He allowed his eyes to shift just behind her again to take in the pile of her clothing once more. His mind raced, picking up and discarding ideas. Finally, much to his disgust, the only plausible option presented itself and he wanted to curse at the ridiculousness of it. There was only one way to test it, though and he bit his tongue. "...Julie," he said slowly. "Why don't you put on some clothes and we'll go for a walk."

She giggled and stepped close to him as she wrapped her arms around his waist, molding her curves to his body. "Why would we want to leave this room?" she purred.

"Because..." He swallowed, feeling his temperature rise. Silently, he damned everything in existence as he felt the warmth of her bare skin press against his arm. His gaze dropped a bit and he tried to focus on her mouth to keep himself from looking even further south. It was unfair. It was really damn unfair. He was only human. Gritting his teeth, he set his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. "Because you deserve to go out, right? You haven't been out in a while. Hot girls like to go nice places, right?" The way her face lit chilled his insides and yet, at the same time, made him feel really guilty. No matter how pathetic Julie seemed now, though, she had no business being in Becca's body and it was his job to get her out. How was a question he would figure out in the next five minutes. He had never heard of such a thing really happening and he doubted she would let him slip away to make a conference call on the subject. Best thing he could think of was to get her back to the house on Royal. Maybe whatever got her past the end of the hall and into Becca would happen again. If nothing else, it was a way to buy time. "C'mon," he murmured. "Get dressed. I'll take you out."

"Yes. Yes, of course." She loosed her hands from his waist and drew back, laughing as Dean immediately averted his eyes. "You're so young," she whispered. "So shy. I like you." With that, she turned and made for Becca's open suitcase. Clearly, she was not about to put on the jeans and t-shirt again. He watched her for a few seconds before he could drag himself back into line. Deliberately, he turned back to the desk and reached up to rub at the back of his neck again. With his other hand, he discretely opened a soft leather pouch that rested just behind the books. Reaching inside, he palmed cool metal and a dry bundle of herbs. He was going to need all the help he could get.


End file.
